


Sleeping Beauty

by BearlyWriting



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Anal Sex, Child Death, Gentle Kissing, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Necrophilia, Parent/Child Incest, mentions of blood and injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28430715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearlyWriting/pseuds/BearlyWriting
Summary: “The thing is...like this, Jason could almost be sleeping. His stiff, cold limbs have been washed. The awful gashes and bruises have been stitched and smoothed and covered with makeup. Someone - Alfred, it must have been Alfred - has dressed him in his favourite pyjamas, bright blue and littered with Superman insignias.”Bruce struggles with his loss.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2020





	Sleeping Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuro49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/gifts).



> A treat for kuro49’s kinkmas prompt! I’m not sure if this is exactly what you were looking for but I hope you enjoy it anyway! :)
> 
> For everyone else, please, please read the tags. This fic is...uh, a lot and I don’t blame anyone if they want to back out of it!

The thing is...like this, Jason could almost be sleeping. His stiff, cold limbs have been washed. The awful gashes and bruises have been stitched and smoothed and covered with makeup. Someone - Alfred, it must have been Alfred - has dressed him in his favourite pyjamas, bright blue and littered with Superman insignias.

Like this, with his eyes shut, long lashes resting against pale cheeks, he looks peaceful. He looks exactly as he ever has, whenever Bruce would poke his head in to check on him after patrol.

And yet, Bruce knows he isn’t. Even if he hadn’t been there - even if he hadn’t held Robin’s little broken body in his own arms, seen the blood and bruises and devastation - he’d still know. Jason is too...too still. Too lifeless.

The cold, aching hole in his gut eats a little more of him away at the thought. Bruce presses one hand to his stomach, trying to stem the sensation. Something hot prickles behind his eyes. He won’t cry. He won’t. Not in front of Jason.

With his free hand, Bruce smooths Jason’s unruly curls away from his forehead. There’s still dust and blood matted into his son’s hair. There’s only so much Alfred can do, afterall. Bruce ignores it as best he can, petting over his son’s head the way he’d used too, once Jason had relaxed enough that Bruce could touch him whilst he slept without startling him awake. He remembers cradling that same head in one hand, feeling the bones shift against his palm -

No.

He remembers smoothing his son’s hair back exactly like this just a few nights before the whole Ethiopia debacle. Jason had been mad at him at the time, but in his sleep, he had turned his head against Bruce’s palm. When Bruce had dropped an affectionate kiss onto his forehead, he had sighed softly.

When Bruce kisses him now, the skin beneath his lips is cool and smooth. There’s no contented sigh, no steady breaths, deep with sleep. Bruce lingers, letting his own shaky breaths warm the skin beneath him. Jason is so cold. His poor little boy. He needs warming.

Bruce adjusts the blankets, pulling them up to Jason’s chin, tucking them around his thin shoulders. If Jason is so cold, though, the blanket isn’t likely to help. So Bruce cups his hands around Jason’s cheeks, holding that little face in his palms, stroking his thumbs over the fragile skin beneath his eyes, his chapped lips. It’s not enough. Jason feels like ice beneath his touch.

And Bruce can’t stand it. He can’t stand the thought of his little boy cold and alone and lifeless in the bed he’d slept in ever since Bruce first brought him home.

It’s not a conscious decision, to climb into the bed beside Jason, to tuck the blanket over them both. To wrap himself around his son. But the moment he does it, Bruce knows it’s the right one. They’ve never cuddled like this before - Jason has always been less touchy-feely than Dick, always more guarded - but he fits so perfectly into Bruce’s arms. When Bruce tucks his head under his chin, it nestles into the hollow of his throat like it was made to be there.

Bruce holds him tight. Rubs his hands up and down Jason’s arms and back, trying to press warmth into the chilly flesh. He kisses him, little desperate pecks over Jason’s cheeks and brow and lips. When he presses their faces together, there’s dampness between them. It’s impossible to know which of them is crying.

⁂

When Bruce wakes in the morning, it’s to an unfamiliar weight in his arms and a much more familiar pressure in his gut. For a moment, he blinks, confused. He isn’t in his room, he’s in Jason’s, and the body in his arms?

Everything comes rushing back to him like a punch to the gut. The warehouse. The bomb. Jason.

Bruce sobs before he can stop himself - a sharp, sudden burst of emotion. Because, for a moment, Bruce had lived in a world where his son was still alive - where the body in his arms was warm and breathing and more than just a limp corpse. Where Jason hadn’t been beaten to a brutal death by the Joker.

Bruce shifts, swallowing against the emotion trying to choke him. Jason is still in his arms, his limp little head resting against Bruce’s shoulder and that only makes everything worse. The tears come without permission, but utterly unstoppable. Bruce buries his face in Jason’s hair and squeezes him tight. Curls up around him as if he can press him into his skin and keep him safe. If he holds him tight enough, perhaps he’ll be able to feel the fluttering beat of Jason’s heart. Perhaps he’ll feel warm breath against his throat.

When he closes his eyes tight enough, he can imagine it.

Bruce’s own heart is beating hard enough to hurt, throbbing in his chest, as if trying to encourage Jason’s to do the same. His pulse thrums in his throat, his head, his...his cock. Because, now that he’s pressed right up against Jason, he can feel the pressure of his morning wood digging into Jason’s hip.

Nauseous horror swells up Bruce’s throat. He’s hard. He’s pressed up against his _son_ and he’s hard. He rolls away, then pauses, trembling. He can’t...he can’t just get up and leave Jason. The thought of leaving him here alone, letting the bedsheets cool around his little body, it’s unbearable. Bruce can’t do it.

So he stays exactly as he is, rolled onto his side, Jason’s chilly arm pressed against his back. When he slips his hand into his pyjama bottoms and touches himself, he has to stifle the startled moan that tries to escape. Jason doesn’t need to hear that. Bruce doesn’t want to wake him.

Later, Alfred brings up breakfast that Bruce can’t bear to eat and doesn’t comment on the way Bruce is cradling Jason against his chest, or the scent of sweat and sex that Bruce is sure has lingered.

⁂

It happens almost every morning after that. It’s natural, Bruce tells himself, even as he jerks furiously at his cock in his son’s bed. It’s only natural to get morning wood. It’s only natural to want to be close to his son at a time like this.

One morning, Bruce finds himself drifting in a half-awake doze, hard and pressed up against something soft and limp, his arms wrapped around someone’s thin shoulders. He groans, shuffles closer, tightens his arms. His hips rut automatically, seeking friction, and the person in his arms doesn’t object, doesn’t try to push him away. Bruce presses his face into their hair, inhaling the scent of strawberry shampoo and, beneath that, something like iron or copper.

The arousal in Bruce’s gut mounts quickly. He ruts against the person next to him, clutching them tight, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. He thinks he feels them press a dry kiss to his throat. Feels their heart pounding in their chest just as his is. His orgasm swells and crests and crashes over him and his cock twitches against the other person’s sharp hip as he empties himself into his boxer shorts.

When he comes fully to, he’s wrapped around Jason and the front of his boxers are sticky. For a moment, horror and disgust surge through his chest. But...but Jason hasn’t complained. He hasn’t pushed Bruce away. He’s lying in Bruce’s arms just as he ever does, his little face smooth and peaceful. And if Jason doesn’t mind, then, it can’t be that bad can it?

And Bruce can’t deny that, once he’s pushed past the queasy turning of his gut, it feels good. It feels...it feels right. To be here like this. To be holding his son in his arms. Bruce can’t deny that he enjoys the closeness.

And the horror shrinks a little more each morning.

⁂

It escalates, after that. The closeness is addictive. Jason is addictive. Bruce ruts himself over Jason’s flat abs, fingers tracing idly across his cheek, pressing over his lips. Jason’s mouth has always been Bruce’s favourite part of him. That lip, that attitude. Sometimes Bruce can’t stand the silence. It’s too much like Jason isn’t here. It’s too much like…

Bruce shifts. Steadying himself with one hand against the mattress, he heaves himself to his knees. It only takes a little maneuvering to settle his legs on either side of Jason’s thin shoulders. Like this, hovering over the hollow of his son’s throat, his cock looks enormous. Dark and thick and purple in the dim light.

Jason is silent. Bruce wants...Bruce wants that to be for a reason. He wants to stopper Jason’s throat. Weigh down his tongue. Fill him up until he _can’t_ speak. Wants to be close to him in a way that he never has been before. Wants to be _inside_ him. Wants to wrap himself up in all that Jason is, like a coat around him. Wants to touch his son where no one else will have ever touched him.

The thought has him rutting his hips forward, sliding his cock over the sharp edge of Jason’s jaw. He shuts his eyes and has to breathe deeply to try to get a hold of himself. Then he shifts closer, adjusting himself until the tip of his cock touches Jason’s lips.

One thumb slides reverently over the seam of Jason’s mouth. The other hand steadies his cock as he presses forward. The tip catches on Jason’s upper lip, peeling it back a little and Bruce expects the white flash of teeth but there’s only the same dark seam.

Bruce thrusts again. His cock throbs, twitching, pulsing a dribble of precum along his straining shaft. It smears over Jason’s full lips as Bruce rocks against him. Even when Bruce presses gently at Jason’s jaw, trying to pry his lips apart, they stay stubbornly closed.

Bruce grunts in frustration. It doesn’t make sense. Jason wouldn’t fight him. He can be stubborn at times, sure, but Bruce would never, ever do this if Jason didn’t want him too. He’s teasing, maybe, or…

Or his lips are sewn together, Bruce realises with a sensation like he’s been speared with ice. Cold horror pools in Bruce’s gut. No. _No_. That isn’t right. Jason is just tired. Too tired to suck Bruce’s cock tonight.

So Bruce strokes himself to the sight of Jason’s slack face instead, ignoring the squirmy discomfort in his gut. It gets easier to push aside the more excited he gets, until, eventually, he’s gasping, his stomach clenching as he spills over Jason’s face.

Afterwards, he cleans him carefully with a warm cloth, trailing apologetic kisses over his skin. Next time, Jason might feel up to it. They should sleep tonight.

⁂

Bruce doesn’t try to get Jason to suck his cock again. Not that he likes to think of what he did in such crude terms. He doesn’t like to think about Jason’s mouth either. It seems cruel. That his smart, chatty little boy has been silenced so permanently.

So Bruce ignores his mouth for now, except when he presses soft kisses to Jason’s lips. 

Stil, he can’t avoid the need for that closeness. Just embracing Jason, kissing him, it isn’t enough. Bruce needs to be close to him. He wants to open his boy's chest, peel back his skin and ribs and climb inside him. Wants to feel Jason around him, warm and _alive_.

So Bruce opens him up, painfully slowly, knowing that Jason can’t avoid the feel of him so intimately familiar. Jason is utterly relaxed underneath him, soft and content, and he yields so easily to Bruce. He opens so beautifully beneath him that Bruce almost doesn’t need the lube. Almost doesn’t need to bother with the fingers before pressing his cock inside.

It’s everything Bruce had been hoping for. Jason is soft and cool around him, a delicious contrast to the heat of Bruce’s cock as he thrusts inside his boy. Jason is so small, but he takes Bruce perfectly. Emotion burns through Bruce’s chest. He feels the prick of tears behind his eyes. There’s a horrible swollen lump in his throat.

Bruce kisses Jason to try to force the feeling back. He presses lips to Jason’s cheeks, his eyelids, his lips, his throat. Peppers his son’s skin with all of the love that’s swelling inside him. It’s not about the sex, although Bruce can’t deny how good it feels. It’s the connection, the meeting of their bodies. It’s about feeling his son so close to him.

Jason is silent underneath him, but Bruce doesn’t mind. He understands how overwhelming this must be for his boy. He doesn’t blame Jason for not knowing what to say.

He does fumble between them, though, groping for Jason’s cock. When he closes fingers around it, it’s still soft, satin-smooth in his grip. Did Jason come already? He is a teenage boy, after all. Bruce can’t exactly blame him.

His own orgasm is creeping up on him already, too. Bruce thrusts into Jason. Presses his mouth to the kid’s throat. Pants through the mounting arousal until his whole body jerks, spilling deep into the body beneath him. If Jason makes a sound, it’s lost beneath his own low groan.

Once Bruce has come back to earth, he lowers himself gently on top of Jason, blanketing his son with his own huge body. He presses their cheeks together and breathes in Jason’s scent and is so grateful that he has this. That he has his son beneath him, pressed right up against him. So many people don’t get to have this. This connection.

Bruce should get up and get a washcloth. He should clean Jason up. But he’s too content, lying here with his boy. And he can’t deny that the thought of his come buried deep inside Jason settles something in his chest. Maybe when they go again, Bruce won’t need the lube, with his own release slicking the way.

The thought makes him groan. He kisses Jason again, a long, slow meeting of their lips, and doesn’t even mind that Jason doesn’t kiss him back.

⁂

“Perhaps it’s time, sir,” Alfred says, one evening, as he’s collecting the plate he’d brought earlier, still full of the dinner Bruce had left to go cold, “to think about putting Master Jason to rest.”

Bruce shuts his eyes. Shakes his head. “Not yet, Alfie,” he manages, through a throat cinched tight with love and grief.

He’s not quite had his fill of Jason yet.


End file.
